


Winter Chill and Summer Bloom

by karasgotagun (jazzmckay)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Verbal Gavin Reed, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Smut, Touch-Starved Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29736666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmckay/pseuds/karasgotagun
Summary: Amidst the crowd at Markus’ victory speech in Hart Plaza, Connor deviates alone, too late to salvage his relationship with Hank or feel he belongs with Jericho. He leaves the city, expecting to never see anyone from Detroit again—least of all Gavin Reed.
Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed
Comments: 20
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to my beta, [RonnieSilverlake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake) for both the betaing and being super encouraging as i worked on this fic! <3
> 
> connor's cat was named by [Corveille!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corveille/pseuds/Corveille)

Connor feels the summer heat in various measures.

Listed in a temperature readout on his HUD first thing in the morning, plus any time he feels the need to check thereafter. There’s little purpose in knowing, other than to complete a rote action. To have something to say if he runs into one of his neighbours as they both leave their homes to start their day.

Shown by the sweat on his glass of cool thirium. He watches a bead of condensation roll down the side of it and reaches out to catch it on the tip of his finger. It loses shape, spilling around the curve of his skin, which recedes into white plating against the stimulus.

It causes lethargy in his cat, Tera, who dozes on her side by his feet while he sips his drink. She only ate half her breakfast before sprawling next to him, sleepier than usual for this point in the day.

It’s late June. Connor’s second summer in this town, his second time feeling the sweltering air of rural Indiana.

When his glass is empty, he gets up to set it by the sink. Tera is slow to follow him, but she always does in time. Connor scoops her up into his arms, skin melting away as he cradles her and takes her into the sunroom.

The heat is reflected in the outfits chosen by his human neighbours, whom he can see through the windows of the small front entranceway. Shorts, tank tops, sandals. Connor is dressed the same as he always is—slacks, buttoned shirt. He doesn’t feel stifled.

Not in the way humans do, at least.

He sits down in the old wicker chair that came with the place and releases Tera to decide if she wants to rest on his lap or go prowling. She chooses the latter, having noticed a fly settled upon one of the window panes.

The mother across the street gets her two children into their seats in the minivan. The younger one has limitless energy, always makes leaving for school in the morning a hassle. When the two are buckled in, Lauren straightens up, looks across the way to Connor, and lifts a hand in greeting. Connor returns the gesture.

A couple weeks past, Lauren asked Connor if he would mind watching the kids during the day when summer break comes up. She couldn’t take the time off work, couldn’t offer much as repayment, but promised to be fair, made a point of saying she believed androids deserve as much compensation as any human.

Connor said, “I’m not a domestic model.”

Lauren replied, “And no human is born knowing childcare, we learn. If you’re not interested, I won’t hold it against you, but I think you’ll do just fine.”

Connor watched a bead of sweat gather over her brow. The lines of her face were prominent, deepened by stress. He nodded, and she thanked him, told him she’d keep him posted.

The school year ends this week. Childcare can’t be further from Connor’s programmed purpose. Soon, he’ll either be apologizing and telling Lauren he isn’t cut out for it, or—he’ll do just fine.

Work is independent and remote. Connor sits in front of the sunroom windows, compiling data into packages and digitally filing them through his connection to a company server. He manages accounts, runs probabilities. He can do it all without leaving home, without moving a muscle. Information flashes through his system, slotted into place seamlessly and instantly.

Tera returns some time later, curling up on his lap for a mid-morning rest. Her purrs are the soundtrack to Connor’s work routine—warm fur pressed into his thighs and vibrations reverberating under Connor’s white and grey palm.

It isn’t long before Connor completes his tasks for the day. He does the same work as the human employees in a fraction of the time, but can’t take on undue extra hours per the Android Employment Act stipulations, which leaves him with too many empty hours.

As he stands, Connor picks Tera up, carrying her back into the house proper. Connor engages her with a feather attached to the end of a stick, waving it around and easily calculating when to pull away too quickly and when to let her catch her prey to hold her interest as long as possible.

He cleans the house. He tightens the screw on a loose leg of a kitchen chair. He pays his electricity bill.

He goes to bed.

He wakes up.

He does it again.

And again.

* * *

Looking after the kids goes okay. Six-year-old Riley and four-year-old Bailey don’t need much from his social module—they know what they want and what they like, they’re happy as long as he can play whatever role they assign him in their make-believe. He doesn’t get into any difficult situations that can’t be resolved by a quick internet search for advice.

He doesn’t think the kids care much about him one way or the other. They aren’t displeased with him, which is enough for Connor.

Lauren thanks him when she gets home in the evening, says, “Would you like to stay for—” then remembers he’s an android who can’t eat. “I—Sorry,” she adds in a rush.

“I’ll stay,” Connor says. “I don’t mind.”

He hasn’t sat with a human while they ate since two Novembers ago. Since Lieutenant Anderson at Chicken Feed telling him his face and voice were not successfully tailored to a smooth integration.

Lauren’s wife, Kim, arrives home and kisses Lauren on the cheek. Connor averts his eyes, feeling like an intruder to their intimacy, his thirium thrumming through the cage of wires in his chest. He listens as Kim disappears down the hall to hang up her suit jacket. He still doesn’t look as the two of them finish making dinner together, instead watching Bailey draw a picture of a knight from a story Connor read to her earlier in the day.

Dinner is awkward, but only in its unfamiliarity. Lauren is anxious about making sure he doesn’t feel weird sitting with them, and Kim tries to soothe her with little jokes and touches to her shoulder.

Connor watches them, the image logged forever in his memory, and feels the skin of his shoulder deactivate automatically underneath his shirt.

It’s so easy between them. Gentle and near unconscious. They reach for each other without thinking, accept each other close without a second thought.

And Connor aches.

When he arrives home after, he goes straight to bed, curls around Tera, and tries to ignore the feeling of being incomplete.

* * *

Connor’s routine breaks one morning on his walk home from the pet store, a bag of food tins hanging off his wrist. It’s early enough that the town hasn’t quite risen—the sun is still lifting itself into the sky, the roads are calm, there isn’t enough noise to block out the chirping of birds and cicadas.

One of the local cafés is open, but not busy. Connor walks past it often—at this time of day, it’s the early risers, those getting their fix before a long day at work. The patio is usually empty, no one interested in using it until the later hours.

Today, there’s someone sitting in the corner, alone at a table for two, someone with a familiar face. Dark hair, warm skin, a dotting of scars. It’s an old face, one that brings Connor to a complete, dead stop.

Since leaving Michigan, Connor has avoided scanning humans upon meeting them the first time. He learns to recognize people by repetition and personal experience rather than logs and profiles, becomes acquaintances with some of the people he works alongside when he’s on-site, gets on a first-name basis with the people behind the counters of the stores he frequents—not by a software function but by something more human.

This face is one that he already has saved in his databanks, prompting information on his HUD before he can stop it.

Detective Gavin Reed sits alone, eyes down on the scuffed wood table as he lightly curls his fingers around his mug of coffee.

He notices that someone has stopped on the sidewalk and lifts his face, brow furrowed.

Recognition. Surprise. Discomfort.

Connor expects a sneer, expects a clenched jaw, hands curled into fists, and a tirade of vulgar, angry words. He expects to be asked what he’s looking at, expects to be told to fuck off, maybe expects a genuine question at best.

What are you doing here? Is this where you’ve been all this time? Why?

But Detective Reed just hunches his shoulders and tilts away from him like Riley did when a bee flew too close to him in the backyard, making him scared of being stung.

“Sorry,” Connor mutters, hiking his bag of cat food higher onto his forearm before he accidentally lets it slide to the ground.

Reed startles. Discomfort becomes confusion. He stares at Connor like he has two heads, like Connor spoke in a language he doesn’t understand.

Connor doesn’t know why an apology was so quick on his lips. He doesn’t feel apologetic for any of his interactions with Reed, not the way he did with Hank, Amanda, Kara, Markus, the Tracis, the JB—

He’s just sorry. In general.

He looks away, starts walking again, leaving Reed behind.

His thirium pump pounds hard in his chest, wild and off beat, prompting a warning message to ping within his system. Irregularity found. Needs recalibration.

Connor hurries home, thoughts clipped and nonsensical like radio static. He feeds Tera, tries to get back into his usual daily routine—fails.

He strips down and lies straight on his back in bed, setting up a chain of system checks to run one after the other, and he shuts his mind off.

* * *

Snow swirls around him but he barely notices, doesn’t feel the cold. He feels—

Long barrel, metal against the sensors of his palms. Hands striking at him, arms trying to restrain him.

“You don’t win this, Connor,” the lieutenant says.

Don’t, not won’t.

He doesn’t—would he feel better if he had? A bullet in the mind of the revolution, scattering Jericho’s people and forcing them to ground. The FBI and the military would snatch them up, tie the loose ends. Connor would return to CyberLife.

For what?

“Is it better this way, Connor?” the lieutenant asks.

He gets his hands balled up in Connor’s jacket, shoves him toward the edge of the rooftop. There’s no real way to know for sure, even with all his processing power and preconstructions. Being decommissioned, or wasting away alone as penance for his mistakes.

The lieutenant’s jacket is speckled white, his grey hair is rustling in the wind, strands becoming tangled.

“I don’t know,” Connor admits.

“Why don’t you give it a go, then, huh?” Anderson says, using his grip on Connor’s jacket to shake him. “Fight back, you bastard!”

Connor raises his hands to take hold of Anderson’s wrists, combat protocols activating in the background, telling him—

Twist, pull, trip, unbalance—

Shove, suspend, drop—

But Connor doesn’t do it. “I don’t want to.”

Anderson sneers at him. “Machines don’t want anything. Deviants do.”

“You aren’t… you aren’t my mission.”

It’s a shaky excuse and they both know it. Connor knew it back then just as much as he knows it now. His mission would have allowed him to fight back.

But he didn’t, and he doesn’t. The lieutenant hauls him over the edge to hang above a several-storey drop to deactivation.

When the lieutenant lets go, Connor feels the vertigo of being surrounded by open air through the stalling of his gyroscopes and calibration routines. He feels the rush of wind as he falls.

He closes his eyes, memory uploading, and—

He wakes up in a spasm, flat on his back in bed with the sheets tangled around his straining limbs.

Tera skitters away from him with a howl as his arms and legs jerk uncontrollably, half trapped in the covers and half completely aimless, like they’re trying to find purchase on something that doesn’t exist. The edge of the building. The lieutenant. Anything to save him from death, but there’s nothing—

He can never grab hold of anything.

A sob wracks Connor’s throat even as his processor eases back into optimal function, his body starting to relax. Just a dream. He isn’t falling, isn’t back in that place.

He brings a white and grey hand to his face, ignoring the way his skin is flickering and receding in hopes of making contact with _something_. He covers his eyes, as if that will stop the flow of eye component lubricant spilling down his cheeks. All it does is spread the tears across his palm and force him to feel the shifting of his glitchy skin.

Rolling onto his side, Connor pulls himself to the edge of the mattress and finds Tera taking refuge under the table in front of the window that houses an array of small potted plants.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Connor whispers to her in the dark.

Her eyes glint as she looks up at him, big and round and watchful.

Connor sniffs as he hangs his hand over the side of the bed, offering it to her.

Nightmares happen to him often, if they can even be considered nightmares at all when they’re just memories injected with pieces of analyzation data and aborted thoughts and speculation. A summation of all he experienced and all he has thought about at any given moment of his past—every decision he made that led him to where he is now.

It is not the first time he has scared Tera away from him. She comes back to him quicker, now, familiar with how this works. She rubs her face against his fingers, licks a stripe up his thumb, allows him to gather her up and bring her back onto the mattress.

After the initial upset, she always cuddles with him, like she can sense that something is wrong with him and she knows he needs to have her pressed against his chest, his arms looped around. She settles, and Connor settles with her.

He falls asleep to the vibration of her purrs.

* * *

Running into someone from his past is nothing to be on edge about. He didn’t really stray far—one state over, just far enough to feel like he’s in a different world.

It isn’t a big deal. Maybe Reed is visiting family. Maybe going to some law enforcement conference. It’s temporary and they likely won’t see each other again before he’s gone, back to Detroit where he’ll forget about Connor again. All Connor needs to do is forget about him, too, and everything will go back to normal.

But it doesn’t.

He sees Reed again when he takes Bailey and Riley to the park. Reed is jogging, his bare arms shiny with sweat and white buds fitted into his ears.

“Connor, slide with me!” Bailey calls from the jungle gym above him.

Reed couldn’t have heard, not with music playing straight into his ears, but he chooses this moment to glance away from the gravel path and his eyes land straight on Connor.

He falters, briefly—catches himself and course-corrects before he even stumbles fully, but his shoulders remain tense as he jogs past. Discomfort again.

Connor turns his back to Reed, climbs up the wooden slat steps of the jungle gym, and follows Bailey down the slide.

It has been a week since Connor saw Reed the first time. His trip must be a long one. It must be almost over. The chances of Connor seeing him a third time are too low to even calculate, it’s near enough to an impossibility that Connor doesn’t expend the processing power on it.

* * *

Probability, as always, is not on his side.

The next time Connor sees Reed, it’s at the corner store. Connor is in the back getting a bottle of thirium when he hears the bell over the door chime with a new arrival. The man behind the front counter greets the newcomer but the newcomer doesn’t reply.

Thirium in hand, Connor turns back down the aisle and catches sight of Reed stepping up to the counter with a nod of greeting.

He gestures behind the man, up at the wall where packs of cigarettes are locked behind plexiglass.

The man raises his eyebrows, looking over his shoulder and then back at Reed. “What?”

Reed raises one finger, then gestures at the cigarettes again.

Behind the counter, the man gives him a bewildered look.

“One box of Mavericks,” Connor says.

At the sound of his voice, Reed nearly jumps out of his skin while the man behind the counter just frowns at him for a second before shrugging and turning around to retrieve the cigarettes from their case.

The entire time Reed is going through his transaction, he’s a whipcord, taut and tense. He doesn’t speak a single word to either Connor or the man behind the counter, just gives a shaky salute in thanks before snatching up his box of cigarettes and turning tail out of the shop.

Connor should let him go, shouldn’t insert himself somewhere he doesn’t belong.

He wires the money for his thirium through before the man behind the counter can even make a move.

“Have a nice day,” Connor says faintly, already walking away.

He catches Reed in the parking lot, sees that he already has a cigarette between his lips and is fumbling with his lighter between trembling hands.

“Can I—”

Reed exhales a harsh breath around his unlit cigarette and backs away from Connor, looking like he wants to run.

“—help?” Connor finishes lamely.

Finally, Reed manages to get the flame going, bringing it to the end of his cigarette. He pockets the lighter, doesn’t give Connor any kind of response, but he doesn’t walk away either, leaving the two of them standing a few feet apart in the middle of the parking lot, alone for the first time since the evidence room.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Connor says.

Reed pulls the cigarette from his mouth and puffs a lungful of smoke into the afternoon air. He stares at Connor, eyes flat, expression closed.

When they knew each other before—in Detroit, in a different world—Reed was mouthy. He taunted Connor, made reproachful comments, was abrasive, and rude, and vulgar. Now, he doesn’t say a word.

Connor would think it’s just him Reed won’t talk to, if not for what happened in the store.

“Are you… okay?” Connor asks.

Reed scoffs—a low, muted sound, but a sound all the same. He brings his cigarette back up to his lips, and Connor resists the urge to tell him how unhealthy it is for him. Chances are, Reed already knows.

Silence stretches as Reed doesn’t answer—can’t answer, Connor thinks, even if his voice box is still functional.

“Do you have your phone with you?”

Narrowing his eyes, Reed blows out another breath of smoke, this time in an agitated rush.

“We could text,” Connor explains.

Reed frowns at him as he taps the ashes from the end of his cigarette. He has grown less discomfited, but he’s still guarded.

Connor lets him smoke in quiet, allowing him time to think without interruption. After a pregnant pause, Reed takes his phone out of jeans pocket, holding it in his palm but making no other move.

“Text my serial number,” Connor says, then recites the first three digits. As Reed taps at his screen, he gives the rest.

From: Unknown Number  
[15:29]  
fuck off.

Connor grins. It takes him off guard—takes Reed off guard too, by the incredulous look he throws at Connor.

“Do you want me to text back, or do you mind if I just speak?”

From: Unknown Number  
[15:30]  
talkings fine.

Connor updates his contacts, adds Reed to his recognized numbers.

“Can I ask what brought you here of all places?”

It’s a simple enough question, Connor thought, but Reed sneers and jabs his thumb into his phone screen with unnecessary force.

From: Gavin Reed  
[15:30]  
none of your business.

“Okay,” Connor concedes. “Sorry.”

Reed takes a deep pull of his cigarette, embers flaring. He looks at the pavement beneath their feet, at the chasm between them, head ducked. A strand of his bangs falls out of formation, ghosting over his temple.

The urge to close the distance, to reach out and sweep the strand away and allow his fingers to connect with Reed’s skin slams into Connor with enough force that his center of gravity feels off-kilter.

But it’s Reed. It would be inappropriate.

They stand like that for a couple minutes, Reed focused on his cigarette and Connor just existing in the same space as him. Reed doesn’t tell him to get lost, despite the tone of his texts. Connor decides he doesn’t want to leave, even if he’s probably broaching a social more.

When Reed is finished, he drops his cigarette butt to the pavement and stamps it out beneath his heel.

They’re left to just look at each other, no words passing between them.

Reed sniffs, nose scrunching up, and scratches at his jaw with one hand while the other taps at his phone screen.

[15:34]  
you been here all this time?

“Yes,” Connor answers out loud.

[15:34]  
why here?

Connor shrugs. “It just… seemed calm.”

Reed raises his eyebrows, asking without words for Connor to elaborate.

“I don’t know. Less people, more rural. I passed through other places like this on the way, but there was just something else about it.” Connor ducks his head as he thinks back to his exodus, back to the confusing mess his mind had been at the time. A juxtaposition of thought processes, machine stiltedness and the swelling of emotions he couldn’t define beyond knowing they stung, ached. He still doesn’t have much handle on emotion, how to categorize feelings. “I… don’t have the words to describe it.”

Reed’s eyes narrow—not in anger, but in consideration. Connor doesn’t know what he’s seeing or what he’s looking for, but it reminds him of the technicians who put him through the paces between his first mission and his deployment at Central station.

Watching for error. Looking for a crack in the programming, a place to dig in and pull apart so they could analyze what went wrong.

Back in November, there had been a lot of things wrong with Connor, as far as Reed was concerned. As far as Connor is concerned, he was right.

He would rather they not dredge up their past, however. “You don’t have to worry about me coming back to Detroit. I have no intention of doing so.”

Reed frowns, shaking his head before looking down at his phone again.

[15:35]  
i don’t give a shit where you hang your hat, tin can

Connor doesn’t know how to reply to that.

They never got along. Connor doesn’t think they would have gotten along regardless of Connor’s choices at the time. There’s really no point for that animosity anymore, though, not here in a small-town parking lot under the hot July sun.

It’s an odd plateau to exist upon. Connor almost wishes he still had a social module prompting his conversation pathways, taking the burden of free thought from him.

In the end, he doesn’t have to say anything. Reed shoves his phone in his pocket, turns his back on Connor, and continues to his car.

Connor stays where he is, only moving when Reed needs to pass by him to leave the parking lot. He watches Reed go, catching the sight of Reed’s eyes flickering up to find him in the rear-view mirror before he exits onto the street.

For his first time properly interacting with someone from Detroit, it isn’t as bad as Connor was expecting a reunion to be.

Reed never liked him, never expected better from him, never tried to appeal to him.

In a way, that’s easier.

* * *

For the next few days, Connor’s mind is ensnared with thoughts of Reed. He thinks about the tension in the lines of Reed’s body, about his calloused fingers braced on either side of a cigarette, about his silence, about his distance.

The space between them is less than it has been in a year and a half, yet the barriers around Reed’s body are as impenetrable as ever.

Connor doesn’t know why it matters to him—except part of him kind of does. Part of him has already latched onto something that the rest of him hesitates to pursue.

Reed knows him. Existing around him is easy, despite their rocky history.

He wants to see Reed again.

The first time he saw Reed at the coffee shop, it had been quarter to six in the morning on a Tuesday. Connor guesses that Reed is a morning person, but that he might not decide to go out every morning. Maybe only on weekdays, while he stays in and relaxes on the weekends.

Connor goes for a walk the next morning. Six o’clock on a Thursday. Reed isn’t there, but he is the day after that.

The sight of Connor causes a lesser reaction in Reed than the times previous. Reed still furrows his brow, inspecting Connor with a watchful eye, but doesn’t shy away from him or text him to leave.

As he comes to a stop on the sidewalk, exactly where he did when they first saw each other here, Connor asks, “Could I sit with you?”

Reed looks him up and down, shifting uneasily in his chair.

Connor expects him to decline.

He doesn’t. Reed gives a single nod before dropping his eyes back down to the table, fingers drawing along the curve of his coffee mug.

A spark of something shoots through the thirium lines connected to Connor’s spine, a spike of energy that spurs him into quick, eager motion. He circles around the patio fencing to the shop’s front entrance.

He should go inside, enter the patio from the interior door, but there’s a spot by the fence without a table in the way. Connor glances up to find Reed watching him with a curious look on his face.

Connor hops the fence. At the other end of the patio, Reed’s eyebrows ascend towards his hairline, looking almost amused. As Connor comes to sit in the chair next to him, he throws Connor a pointed look, questioning.

“It was faster,” Connor says.

Reed huffs a tiny breath, so quiet Connor nearly misses it. He raises his mug to his lips, filling his nose with the scent of steaming coffee before taking a sip.

As if the summer heat wasn’t enough. Connor looks into the café and sees someone with an iced coffee, another with a smoothie. Across the street, a couple kids have bought snow cones from the food truck that parks in the lot across from the grocery store.

Reed likes his coffee. Connor first learned that on November 6th, 2038, in the Central station break room.

Now that Connor is here, he doesn’t know what to say, if there’s even anything he could say that Reed would welcome. Their history doesn’t leave them a good baseline and Connor gets the sense that Reed doesn’t want to talk about work.

“Are you visiting family?” he asks.

Reed sets his coffee back down on the table, ceramic thudding against the surface. He shakes his head.

Something in the action tells Connor he took a misstep. “I’m sorry.”

Instead of being placated, Reed purses his lips. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

From: Gavin Reed  
[06:06]  
quit apologizing

“Okay,” Connor says, a hairbreadth above a whisper. Oddly, it’s a relief—he doesn’t feel freed from guilt, but at least free of the urge to not let the guilt be forgotten for a single moment. He tries, “Will you be here long term, then?”

Reed shrugs a shoulder, thumb rubbing across the bottom of his phone like he’s debating whether or not to reply by text.

“You don’t have to explain.”

With a nod, Reed sets his phone down on the table, picking up his coffee instead to take a drink.

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, which makes Connor itch—it isn’t that he minds silence, he has spent a lot of time with silence since fleeing Detroit to save Jericho and Lieutenant Anderson from his continued presence, but Reed’s silence in particular is something to get used to.

He wants to know why Reed has changed. He knows he can’t ask.

“I could show you around town. If there are places you still haven’t checked out.”

Reed’s eyes snap back up to him, wide with shock. He doesn’t need to speak for Connor to understand the underlying question of _why_.

“Why not?”

Reed raises an eyebrow.

Connor leans back in his chair, laying his arms down on his midsection. “Everyone knows each other in small towns like this, like it exists in a bubble, its own ecosystem. It took me some time to settle in on my own.”

Settling in and getting to know the rest of this town’s residents may not be of interest to Reed, he realizes. In Connor’s first winter here, he hadn’t bothered to leave his house much at all, wanting nothing more than to disappear into his own space where he wouldn’t have to interact with others, wouldn’t have to risk messing up somehow.

“If you’re up for it,” he adds.

There’s no reaction from Reed at first—he stays focused on the dark surface of his coffee, halfway finished, while Connor waits, unsure of what to expect.

Then Reed gives a little shrug. From Connor’s understanding, it’s the kind of shrug that means _yes, but I don’t want to seem overenthusiastic_ rather than _no, but I feel bad saying it_.

“Text me what your schedule is like, when you’d be available?” Connor prompts, a small smile forming on his face.

Reed nods, fingers tapping against the edge of his phone. After a moment, he sits back in his chair, taking the phone in hand, and starts typing in a response.

[06:31]  
no obligations right now. i wake up early. just give me a heads up the night before so im ready

“Of course,” Connor agrees.

He wonders if Reed is job hunting, or if he’s on paid leave, or if he’s coasting on savings and unemployment. If this is a prolonged vacation or the start to a new life somewhere else. The urge to question—out of both curiosity and concern—is nearly impossible to tamp down, but it’s not his place to ask.

“I usually take my work hours in the morning,” he muses out loud. If he isn’t finished by the time he’s needed to watch the kids, he wraps up in the evening. “It doesn’t really matter when though, that’s just… a routine. I haven’t had anything else to fill my mornings with.”

As Reed sets his phone back down on the table and retrieves his mug, he regards Connor with an expression that’s difficult to read. Just blank enough that Connor might assume he’s not thinking anything at all, if he didn’t know better.

He’s being inspected. It has been a long time since Connor was in a position to be scrutinized like this—the town’s citizens did size him up when he first arrived, but they’re used to him now and it’s rare for new people to blow through.

It reminds Connor of Hank eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and frustration, maybe even hope, only for it to get dashed the moment Connor opened his mouth and said something about his mission or objectives or machines not having feelings. It reminds him of the way Markus bore into him with words, both encouraging and cutting, waiting to see if Connor would bend or remain stagnant.

Connor hopes this thing with Reed doesn’t turn out as badly as everything did with Lieutenant Anderson and Markus.

Reed says nothing, as usual, so Connor can’t predict what path they’re headed down. He just shrugs again as if to say _your choice_.

“I’ll text you tonight,” Connor says, the words feeling like a promise.

With a nod from Reed, the matter is settled.

They fall into a silence that Connor is beginning to find familiar as Reed finishes his coffee and Connor watches people come and go from the coffee shop, some quick before moving onto the next part of their day, others lingering, relaxed.

Most are alone or in companionable pairs. With him and Reed, Connor isn’t sure which it is—not physically alone, but the space between them is still charged rigid from the interactions of their past.

A moment after Reed plunks his empty mug down on the table, he starts to shift in his chair, restless.

“Ready to go?” Connor asks.

Reed nods, his shoulders dropping a fraction as if placated. Connor wonders if he’s struggled to make people understand him ever since he stopped speaking.

Wonders why that happened in the first place.

Connor smiles at him, mostly out of routine politeness and not knowing what to say other than, “Until later, then.”

Reed nods again as he puts his phone away in his pocket, indicating that no more words will pass between them right now, vocal or by text.

They go their separate ways.

When Connor arrives home, he sinks into his couch, waggling his fingers at Tera to entice her into joining him on the cushions. He does some work while petting the soft fur along Tera’s back.

An hour later, he crosses the street to see Lauren and Kim off and find something to entertain the kids until lunch.

It isn’t until he’s home for the evening that he allows himself to think of Reed and deconstruct the time they spent together.

Connor feels pleased, accomplished. But not sated.

By the time he’s climbing into bed, he has an itinerary—making a note to avoid calling it as such outside the privacy of his own mind, where the only person who can judge him is himself—and texts Reed a location and a time for late morning on Saturday.

All Reed texts back is _see you there_.


	2. Chapter 2

The library is one of Connor’s favourite places in town, one of the few where he feels truly at rest. It isn’t lost on him that it’s also a place for people to be alone, to be _left_ alone, and that’s the root of what makes him so relaxed there, but he also knows there’s more to it than that. More to it that he hopes to show Reed.

After meeting on familiar ground at the coffee shop, Connor leads the way down a couple blocks, then up the cobblestone path to a large building with an impressive front lawn. The trees and hedges make a welcoming entrance to the property, but they’re only the opening act, as far as Connor is concerned.

Once they’re close enough to the double doors of the old building to read the stylized and faded sign above them, Reed looks at Connor with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Connor says, mostly for the joke of it—this metaphorical cover is perfectly good, but he knows Reed will be a harder sell.

In response, Reed rolls his eyes and lifts an arm, gesturing with a sarcastic flourish for Connor to lead the way.

Connor does.

Inside, a hush settles around them. No distant chatter from passersby downtown, no sound of cars, no birds singing or wind rustling through tree leaves. Just them, the grand foyer with its high ceilings painted in muted tones, and silence.

Ignoring the way forward into the open main floor, Connor starts for the staircase, taking Reed up to the third floor.

The shelves here tend to be even quieter than the floors below. The books they house are old tomes and deep accounts, subjects that appeal to a much smaller audience. Low light leaves the aisles shadowed, and the lesser traffic makes Connor feel like he could detect the drop of a pin from across the building.

This is the first time he’s had company while walking this part of the building; even the thought of speaking out loud is jarring, but it’s allowed, and no one else is nearby anyway.

“I like the quiet here,” he tells Reed, who is roving his eyes across all the aisles stretched out before them. “It’s a kind of quiet I had never experienced before coming here.”

Something about this atmosphere calms even the noise within his mind.

Reed purses his lips, brow furrowed the slightest bit—not upset, but thinking something he’s unlikely to voice. His hands are held deep in the pockets of his jacket, a garment that Connor thought would make him sweat in the summer heat but seems to be a comfort Reed will not part with.

Connor watches as Reed steps into an aisle, looking at the frayed hardcovers of books that could very well be decades old. Books that have lived.

Then he takes his phone out of his pocket and sends Connor a text.

From: Gavin Reed  
[11:06]  
i dont mind noise

For all that it’s an informing statement, it doesn’t give Connor much to go on.

“You don’t feel more comfortable in the quiet?” he asks, holding himself back from asking if Reed’s silence is born of the need for something, the way Connor getting himself a cat fulfilled a need he has since identified as unjudging companionship.

Reed thinks before shaking his head and tapping out another message.

[11:07]  
everyone else can be loud, as long as they dont make me say anything

Connor frowns, but simply files the information away for later, deciding not to push his luck with someone who would not consider him a confidante.

“The quiet isn’t the only good thing about this place,” he says instead, nodding his head down the line of shelves. “Follow me?”

Reed’s eyebrow quirks. With a nod, he turns away from the books to face Connor, waiting for him to continue on.

At the other end of the long room, Connor pushes through a set of intricately carved wooden doors that show just how old the building is, already smiling to himself before the light of the space beyond reaches him.

As soon as he’s through, he moves against the wall, holding the door so that Reed can follow and get an unimpeded view of the hall.

An enclosed bridge connects the two wings of the third floor, a stretch of space that is empty save for a couple benches and large potted plants placed between them. Across from them is a line of floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a perfect view of the landscape behind the building.

Reed’s eyes are drawn to it instantly, his expression going slack as he takes it all in, lips parting even if no sound will come out of them.

The first time Connor saw it, he was in awe. Reed isn’t the kind of person to be quite so taken, he doesn’t think, but with his current demeanour compared to who Connor met a year and a half ago, Connor thinks he’ll at least understand.

“Before leaving Detroit, I never saw anything like this. Not really,” he says, keeping his voice light. He knows the quiet around them and the echo in the hall will make him heard easily enough. “There was—a garden. But it was virtual, it wasn’t quite real, not as real as this.”

Reed nods as he approaches the great panes of glass, gazing down at the land below.

Sunlight glitters like winking stars on the surface of the lake. A rock formation at the far side links two separate parts of it, leaving the water to cascade gently down the incline. There are trees so old, so big, that a single person wouldn’t be able to wrap their arms around the trunks. In the center is a gazebo adorned in an array of bright, climbing flowers, a centerpiece to a space that someone has cared for and curated with their own hands rather than it being written into existence with code.

After looking his fill, Reed takes a step away from the glass and throws Connor a look, giving a small nod. Something like approval.

Connor’s back straightens just a little. “Want to sit for awhile?” he asks.

Reed nods again, and the two of them approach the bench directly in the middle of the hallway, turned to look out at the lake.

Waiting for Reed to pick a spot first, Connor follows after him, not realizing until too late just how close he has chosen to sit at Reed’s side.

Only a couple of inches between them. Warmth flares over Connor’s faceplates in a deviant reaction he has never understood, the illogical effect of embarrassment.

But Reed is already looking at the windows again, an almost glazed quality to his eyes.

Connor leans back on the bench, relaxing into the polished wood. When they’re aligned, a fold in Reed’s jacket ghosts Connor’s bicep.

There are at least three layers of clothing between them, and yet this is enough to make Connor’s chest clench with need. He wants to give into the urge to lean closer, to rest against Reed’s arm, to feel the line of it against his own.

Insurmountable desire is the only thing stopping him from feeling horrified with himself.

At best, this is pathetic. At worst… he isn’t sure, it just feels wrong to feel this way with Reed, who hates him— _hated_ , maybe, with how things have shifted—and has no idea how messed up Connor truly is.

Reed looks away from the window. Looks straight at Connor.

With a start, Connor straightens, leaning away from the curve of the bench backrest.

It doesn’t matter; Reed is looking at him, now, that faraway gaze replaced with sharp attentiveness. There’s a question in the slow tilt of his head, in the way his eyes flicker down to take in Connor’s body language before returning to his face.

Inspecting him.

Connor opens his mouth to speak, then remembers Reed telling him to quit apologizing, and shuts it again with the audible clack of his teeth.

They regard each other for a tense beat before Reed tears his eyes away so he can fish his phone out and say something.

[11:16]  
why are you trying so hard with me? you have no reason to want to be around me

Connor blinks in surprise, his stress level ticking up a few percent. “Trying—I’m not trying anything,” he insists in a rush.

He knows Reed is only entertaining him so he can get the lay of the land, he knows they aren’t going to become friends just because they’re the only people from an old life who have migrated to this small town. Reed has even less reason to want to be in Connor’s presence than the other way around.

The look Reed gives him is withering, which does nothing to abate the building anxiety thrumming through his thirium lines.

[11:16]  
wasnt trying to suggest ulterior motives, just wondering why you give a shit

Connor’s processor stalls as he takes in the words, needing to run them through his processor a couple times to understand what has prompted the line of questioning: not reproach, but bewilderment, maybe curiosity.

Perhaps the two of them feel more alike than Connor anticipated.

Relaxing back, Connor settles against the bench again, but angles himself in such a way that he’s turned towards Reed, his shoulder supporting him instead of pressed close.

Sunlight pouring in through the windows highlights Reed’s face, bleaches the lighter tone of his most prominent scar. Connor can see—in the light and with his scanner—that there are many more among it, little nicks and scratches accumulated over the years.

There’s even one stretching down the right side of his chin that wasn’t there two Novembers ago. Something new in the time they spent a state away from each other, the mark of a life Reed has lived since they last laid eyes on each other.

Connor nearly asks how he got it before remembering the topic at hand, realizing he has let his mind wander.

“You seem different,” he starts.

None of the words that come to mind seem sufficient to describe how it felt to see Reed again for the first time in a year and a half. Coming face to face with Reed in the corner store parking lot was nothing like Reed following him down into the evidence room—quite the opposite. Connor was the pursuer, this time.

Reed does that head tilt that Connor is learning to interpret as a request for elaboration.

Eyes dropping to the inch of wooden bench that creates a divide between their thighs, Connor tries to put it into words that hopefully won’t offend, won’t make Reed feel put on the spot.

“You kept your distance. You weren’t looking for a fight, not for revenge or just out of… hatred. That told me that you harboured no ill-will for me, not as an android, nor because of what happened during the revolution.” He lifts his eyes again, watching for Reed’s reaction. “Is that true?”

Reed worries his bottom lip between his teeth, but he nods in agreement, nods for Connor to continue.

“A year and a half can be a long time, as I understand it,” Connor says, the corner of his lips quirking. “For me, it’s most of my life, so I admit I’m merely attempting to understand it from the human perspective. It can go by fast, or it can be the difference between two realities. I think for both of us, it has been the latter. I suppose I saw something familiar.”

Reed’s expression betrays nothing—Connor can see him running a fingertip along the edge of his phone, but that’s the only movement he makes.

As silence stretches, Connor sets his chronometer into dormancy, wanting to feel the progression of time the way a human would, rather than sinking himself too thoroughly in a known, fixed amount, in an analysis of what that amount could mean.

Eventually, Reed nods, and Connor’s chest unclenches.

Reed turns to look out the windows again, eyes half lidded but still focused rather than staring into the middle distance.

Following his example, Connor faces forward again, exhaling a long breath that eases the lines of his chassis. Their shoulders brush again, but Reed doesn’t mention it nor move away, so Connor doesn’t either.

They stay this way for a while, Reed now as content as Connor to just sit and watch ducks drift across the surface of the lake.

Connor is used to sitting here alone, but it’s just as peaceful with company, especially now that he and Reed have surpassed at least one of the hurdles between them.

Reed takes his phone in hand again, but his grip is loose, his fingers unharried as he taps at the screen.

[11:31]  
you read here? actual physical books?

“Sometimes,” Connor answers. “Not all of the books here can be viewed digitally. Even the ones that can, I prefer to read the slow way. I’m in no rush.”

He has time to kill. Here, he has a simple existence and nowhere to go, no mission to complete. He prefers it this way.

[11:32]  
dont you get bored

“No. Are you bored?”

Reed presses his thumbnail into the seam of his phone case, pausing for a second before shaking his head and sending another message.

[11:32]  
not really looking for excitement anymore

Just on the edge of a story—the suggestion of something. If the two of them make it through today, if they continue spending time together without either of them lashing out at the other like they would have before, Connor might ask.

“You came to the right town, then,” he says. “I think the biggest thing that ever happens around here is the end of summer carnival. It’s hosted in the elementary school grounds, everyone goes. You’ll see in a month.”

Rather than respond, Reed looks out through the windows again, beginning to bounce his knee restlessly.

The carnival might not be his scene. “I almost didn’t go, last year,” Connor admits. “I probably wouldn’t have, if not for my neighbours’ encouragement. I didn’t think I knew the townspeople enough to fit in, but I enjoyed it all the same. It was a nice atmosphere.”

Reed makes a sound of acknowledgement, a faint grunt that’s the most noise Connor has heard from him thus far.

[11:33]  
tell me more about the town

Connor does. He talks about his first winter season, omitting how he spent most of it indoors alone, focusing on how much snow fell over the town, and the carollers that came by even though they didn’t know him personally, and the thirty-foot Christmas tree that was raised in front of Town Hall.

He talks about the spring, how he felt more up to exploring, by then. How he found the library and other places he hopes to show Reed soon. His first summer: the carnival, the way he mostly observed, but would like to join in more, next time.

He talks about his neighbours, about the owners of the mom-and-pop corner store he frequents, and the only other android resident of the town—an MC500 model named April, bought by the municipality to bring more immediate health care to people who can’t drive to the nearest large city. She still works the same job, Connor has learned, feeling enough sense of duty and care for the wellbeing of her patients that she doesn’t mind holding onto her programmed purpose.

Reed listens without comment, his knee eventually slowing to a stop and his back slumping against the bench. The moment becomes relaxed, quiet, thoughtful.

When Connor finishes, Reed finally sends him another text.

[11:57]  
so whats next then

Connor smiles, turning to look at him. “Lunch. Geoff’s Bar and Grill, the heart of town. It’s more than a restaurant, it’s a gathering place, and from what I hear, the food is the best. There’s even a trivia night once a week.”

Reed scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching.

[11:57]  
games rigged, if youre playing

“I would never,” Connor responds with fake affront, but he’s grinning, too. “Don’t worry, I’ve never participated.”

[11:57]  
didnt say it was a bad thing. saying wed win something if we entered

The implication gives Connor pause, his processor firing off with the possibility of them as a team. If Connor stayed in Detroit and continued working as a detective like April continued being a nurse, maybe they could have been partnered on a case, but Connor doubts that would have felt like this, with Reed suggesting it, Reed acting like he would _enjoy_ it.

Reed lifts his free hand to scratch awkwardly at the side of his face, and Connor realizes he’s been silent for too long, leaving Reed to guess at his thoughts.

“I’ll sign us up sometime,” he says with a nod. “Only minimal cheating, though, or they won’t allow us in for a second round.”

Relaxing again, Reed nods back at him.

Connor stands up. “Come on, lunch is on me.”

Reed slips his phone into his jacket pocket and follows after him.

* * *

After lunch—where Reed nearly doesn’t let Connor pay but concedes after a stare-down—and chatting casually with a couple of the locals also gathered for their midday meal, Connor and Reed stroll through the main street, Connor filling Reed in on whatever he knows about the various shops.

Connor walks Reed home to a three-storey apartment complex, going up the outdoor staircase with him but hanging back at the end of the hall.

“I’ll see you for coffee in the morning?”

As he pulls his phone out, Reed nods.

[15:38]  
buy something next time, weirdo

“No thirium products,” Connor reminds, huffing a small laugh at Reed’s responding scowl. “I’ll bring my own thirium, how’s that?”

Reed makes a face that conveys reluctant agreement, then waves a hand and heads towards his apartment.

Connor watches him go, waits until he sees Reed turn his key in the lock of his front door before taking his own leave.

High afternoon sunshine obscures his sight as he sets on his way home, but he doesn’t mind, merely lifts a hand to his forehead until his eyes adjust. Short of days when he’s looking after the kids, it’s the most time Connor has spent out of his house in longer than he can remember. It’s the most adult companionship he has had outside Lauren and Kim. The most closeness he has had other than Bailey shoving a picture book into his hands or Riley tugging at his shirt to get his attention.

Of all the people to draw him out again, it’s the very last person he could have anticipated, and somehow that makes it easier rather than impossible.

* * *

Connor’s usual morning routine changes.

Instead of having a glass of thirium alone before settling into work with Tera on his lap, he feeds Tera and gives her some attention so she doesn’t miss his early day presence too badly, then meets Reed at the coffee shop. If it’s a babysitting day, he returns home promptly after they’re finished, and if it’s not, the two of them explore the town together.

Sometimes they chat, Reed still using his phone when he needs to say something more elaborate than standard gestures can show, and sometimes they just sit together and watch the town come to life.

Connor steadily takes Reed to every prominent location of the town, from the community pool to the museum to the shooting range to the theater.

They sign up for trivia night. On a warm Friday evening, they sit together at a small table and face off against three other pairs to guess movie facts, details about major historical events, and the answers to riddles and equations.

Connor only cheats if Reed knows enough about a topic that he can furiously tap the vague approximation of an answer to Connor through his phone, giving Connor enough information to find a search result so fast it looks as if Reed had the true answer all along and was merely giving it to Connor to repeat it out loud.

When they win, Reed beams. He bows with a silly flourish as they stand up to accept their prize of a gift card for the coffee shop and a bottle of the Bar and Grill’s famous barbeque sauce.

Connor hands his winnings over to Reed—he has no use for them, Reed might as well have double.

This makes Reed frown, even as he accepts them. With his hands full, he juts out an elbow to get the event organizer’s attention.

“Need help with all that?” the man asks, misunderstanding, while Connor stares at Reed, trying to predict where this is going.

Reed shakes his head. He lifts his earnings, both his and Connor’s, before nodding in Connor’s direction.

The man looks between them, still not getting it.

“It’s fine,” Connor starts. “It would be too much hassle; I take no offense.”

But Reed is shifting everything into one arm so he can lift his free hand and point at Connor’s LED, forcing the man to understand.

“Oh,” he says, with genuine regret in his voice, though he offers nothing else.

“Like I said, it’s fine. I didn’t play for the prize,” Connor insists.

He looks at Reed and Reed looks back, clutching the bottles and cards against his chest as he takes in what Connor’s saying.

More than any material prize, Connor appreciates the company. Sitting next to Reed, on the same side of the table facing the projector screen of trivia questions, with their elbows and feet occasionally making contact. The sense of togetherness, the—resolution of something long past that Connor never thought would play a part in his life ever again.

It makes him wonder if there’s hope for him to make something of what he left behind. If he can be friends with Gavin Reed, he might be able to apologize to Hank, might be able to prove his worth to Jericho.

In the end, Reed just nods, waving the event organizer off, and loops his arm with Connor’s to pull him back to their table.

The easy, close contact has Connor’s eyes widening, unable to do anything but let himself be tugged along. He feels the skin of his arm recede from halfway down his bicep to nearly his wrist, the overlay shivering as the press of Reed’s body against his is logged and analyzed in a background process that Connor doesn’t even have the presence to evaluate just yet.

Reed practically pushes him down to his chair. Connor blinks, lifting his face to catch Reed’s eye and sees something knowing—understanding—in the look he receives back.

It’s fleeting. In the next moment, Reed’s looking away to poke at the remnants of the nachos he’d been eating through the trivia game, finishing them off before they leave for the night.

Reed’s arm stays flush to Connor’s the whole way home to his apartment.

* * *

At the clack of billiard balls knocking into each other, one sending the other into the corner with a soft drop, Reed straightens up to smirk at Connor, spinning his pool cue around.

“It was a good shot,” Connor allows, “but it won’t win you the game.”

Reed sticks his tongue out before leaning back down to take another shot that ends his turn. As the balls roll to a stop, he balances his pool cue against the table to free up his hands, tapping his fingers against his opposite wrist, urging Connor to get a move on.

“Impatient to lose, are we?”

Resting his hip against the table, Reed crosses his arms and gives Connor an unimpressed look.

Connor chuckles as he scans the table for the optimal first shot. He has half a mind to map out a series of hits that will bring the game to its end before Reed even gets another turn.

The sound of a pool cue being tapped on the wooden lip of the table breaks his attention. He looks up to see Reed urging him to hurry again, this time in a way that implies he knows Connor is analyzing.

“Cheating is only allowed when we’re working together, got it,” Connor says.

Reed nods, sticking his nose in the air as if to say _damn right_.

Based on what options he’d already gathered before Reed interrupted him, Connor steps around the corner of the table and takes his shot.

He sinks a single ball. Stands up to reposition and sink another. Right before thrusting the pool cue forward, he glances up across the table at Reed through his eyelashes, takes in the sight of him.

The bar music has him bobbing his head just slightly, almost imperceptible, but it’s in time to the beat of some classic rock song. Low lighting colours his face in warm hues—the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced, but his calm features offset the gloom, allowing him to still look at ease. More lights from the pinball machine to his right cast a pink and blue glow on his hair.

Connor finds he doesn’t want to look away. Wants to soak in the image of a candid Reed, relaxed in his presence, now leaning comfortably on his pool cue.

Unconsciously, Connor takes his shot, startled by the strike of the cue ball against another. Without his full attention on the table, his trajectory is off—the ball hits the far wall and bounces back into the center.

A slow smirk grows on Reed’s face, and he looks so pleased that Connor doesn’t even mind.

Still, he says, “Don’t be smug. I’m just prolonging the game so it isn’t over too fast.”

Reed scoffs as he moves to take his turn.

Even on nights like these when Reed’s phone stays in his pocket, Connor finds it so easy to understand him, to understand his gestures and expressions. As the days go on and they fall into this routine, Connor feels the absence of Reed’s words less and less. It isn’t truly a lack of words; Reed says plenty, just not out loud.

It’s a familiarity Connor has never had with another person. Hank remained inscrutable to him until the end, Kim and Lauren are closer to acquaintances than friends.

Against all odds, Reed is the first person Connor has figured out, the first person who might be figuring him out in return.

Despite his errant shot, and the distraction Reed poses for the rest of the night, Connor manages the victory. Reed is pouty about it, but only to continue their banter—he still gravitates close to Connor when they leave the bar, still smiles at him when they’re out in the street beneath the stars.

Connor walks Reed home like usual, but then something in their routine changes. On the staircase landing where Connor normally stops and lets Reed continue alone, Reed spins to walk backwards down the hall, gesturing for Connor to follow him.

A clear invitation for Connor to follow him to his door, to follow him inside, to prolong their time together for at least a little while.

As if drawn by a magnetic force, Connor goes. He watches Reed pivot to face forward again, hovers at his back while Reed unlocks his door.

The apartment beyond is sparse and impersonal—when Reed turns on the lights, Connor instinctively scans for information, for details that might give him insight, but the place looks like he imagines it did when Reed first started renting it. A lot of permanent fixtures with only the bare minimum of furniture added, all simple and cheap.

Connor can’t say if that’s because Reed’s not one for interior design or if this is a temporary lodging and Reed still thinks of Detroit as his real home.

It reminds Connor of his own place. For a long time, he didn't live there so much as existed within its walls out of necessity, and even now he has few preferences, no thoughts on what to do with the space to make it truly his own beyond the plants lining the windows.

Reed gets himself a glass of water at the kitchen sink, then gestures for Connor to join him on the couch. He turns the TV on while Connor gets comfortable, flipping around until he’s satisfied with a station showing an old action movie.

At first, Connor feels out of place—they’ve always spent time together in the open, public town, not in the quiet, private spaces where they’re used to being alone, unobserved.

Reed seems content to wedge himself in the corner of the couch, one leg up on the cushion, and watch the movie with heavy eyelids. Connor spends more time watching him than the screen, but if Reed notices, he doesn’t react or do anything about it.

As the night continues, Reed slumps more, his eyes nearly closing.

Connor opens his mouth to ask if he should leave so Reed can sleep, but the thought of breaking the comfortable silence between them makes the words die in his throat.

He stays quiet, and Reed falls asleep.

Connecting to the television wirelessly, Connor gradually lowers the volume until it’s a faint murmur, managing not to disturb Reed in the process. The action and dialogue are of no interest to Connor, he just takes in the vague happenings of the film while allowing Reed to rest.

His own eyes fall shut after the movie finishes, credits roll, and something else starts up in its place, but he doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t feel like he should, like all of this is too new, that he would be imposing somehow. He shouldn’t be staying this late at all, but he thinks of the shadows under Reed’s eyes and can’t bring himself to wake him.

It’s silent save for Reed’s breathing and the sounds of the building around them, the hum of appliances one room over.

It feels like this moment could stretch into forever.

It doesn’t.

Reed’s breathing picks up speed. Connor registers the sound of him shifting on the couch, the soft fabric of his shirt against rougher upholstery.

Connor opens his eyes, expecting to see Reed waking up on his own, about to say they should call it a night, but Reed’s eyes are still shut, shut tight, a crinkle in his forehead above them.

He moves again and Connor recognizes it for what it is this time: a jolt, like he’s flinching away from something, on the defensive.

“Reed?” Connor whispers, voice clipped from dormancy and reluctance.

Leaning closer, Connor runs a scan on him, logging the quick pace of his breath, the spiking rate of his heartbeat.

“Reed,” he says, louder this time. “Can you hear me? Wake up.”

It’s a nightmare, he’s sure. He’s familiar with the constricting grip of it, the way everything happening in his head feels real, causes him to react bodily even though he isn’t conscious, even though it’s only jumbled thought processes from events a year and a half old.

Connor pushes himself into the middle of the couch and lifts a hand, reaching out.

He wants to bring an end to whatever Reed is experiencing, whatever he might be reliving. It could be so many things; Reed has lived a lot longer than Connor has, must have so many memories and fears and dark thoughts that won’t leave him alone no matter how many years pass.

The promise of contact stops him from closing the last couple of inches, his hand poised over Reed’s arm, which is bare below the halfway point of his bicep.

Could reach for a clothed shoulder instead, that would feel less like—taking advantage.

Overthinking. Reed has shown he’s comfortable being close to Connor like this, it’s only an issue because of Connor, because of how broken, how _starved_ he is. Someone normal wouldn’t be so caught up on this.

He isn’t normal.

Connor settles his hand on Reed’s shoulder. “Reed. Gavin!”

All at once, Reed moves. One hand snatches Connor’s wrist and pulls it away as Reed lunges forward, other hand slamming into Connor’s chest.

Eyes widening, Connor falls back across the cushions, head knocking into the arm at the other end. Reed hovers over him, pinning him down and squeezing his fingers tight around the creaking joint of Connor’s wrist.

His eyes are glazed, unseeing.

An involuntary shiver passes through Connor that has nothing to do with the shock—has everything to do with Reed’s warm skin and weathered palm, with the heavy pressure of his other hand bearing down, firmly held.

“Gavin,” Connor breathes, struggling to speak through the haze in his mind. “It’s me, Connor. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Reed makes a strangled noise, his fingers curling into Connor’s chest, bunching his shirt. From the darkness of the room, his pupils are blown wide, making him look wild, terrified.

“You’re safe, I promise,” Connor continues, unsure of what else to do but insist, reaffirm, until Reed comes back to himself. He meets Reed’s eyes, monitors the readouts of his vitals, feels encouraged when Reed starts to uncoil. “It was a nightmare, that’s all. Nothing real.”

Reed blinks, eyes roving Connor’s face. His fingers continue to restrain Connor in a firm grip, a grip that has Connor’s system heating, which in turn makes him feel embarrassed and frustrated with himself.

He should not enjoy having Reed’s fingertips pressed over the thirium lines that power his hand, not when the reason for it is terror.

Recognition flickers over Reed’s face, then a stunned disquiet follows. Pulling away with a start, Reed rests on his knees, releasing Connor to clutch at the back cushions instead, a tremble wracking his body.

Connor sits up slowly, keeping his movements measured in case anything sudden would put Reed on edge again.

Reed watches him with alarm in his eyes and tension in his body. His lips part, move wordlessly. By the curve of them and the position of his teeth set together, Connor has a good idea of what he’d say if he could bring himself to speak.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” Connor responds. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Reed couldn’t, and more importantly, he wouldn’t. Not anymore. Back in the evidence room, they found out which of them would win handily in a fight, and in the past month, they’ve learned that neither of them is interested in a round two.

No number of violent awakenings is going to scare Connor off, not when he’s still battling his own demons.

Fingers trembling, Reed runs his hand through his hair, eyes averted.

For the first time in weeks, the silence is stifling. Connor has never had a problem filling the quiet all on his own or just allowing it to settle comfortably. They don’t have to speak to feel at ease, but now, he fights to find some way to reassure, to make this better.

He tries to think of what he might like someone to say to him if their positions were reversed, but—he doesn’t know. Has never even fathomed receiving comfort from another person like that.

The best he has is, “Whatever it was, it can’t hurt you anymore.”

He wishes he could believe it for himself.

Reed shuffles back further, pressing to the opposite end of the couch where he’s as far away from Connor as possible, curling into himself, making himself small. Untouchable.

Connor yearns to reach out for him, to chase the feeling of warmth, to soothe him somehow.

Opposite him, Reed only seeks distance.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” Connor whispers.

Reed’s eyes flicker over to him, gaze connecting in the space of a millisecond before it’s broken again. Connor can’t get a read on what he’s thinking, not like he’s accustomed to.

They remain this way for some time—nothing changes, other than Reed’s vitals dipping back into mostly normal levels. He stays huddled at the other end of the couch, avoiding all contact.

“Do you want me to go?”

Reed doesn’t move. Stares across the room, at a fixed point in the drywall.

Connor is reminded of when they first ran into each other at the coffee shop, at the park, at the corner store. Of the way Reed recoiled from him, defensive and guarded like he feared Connor would hurt him.

After what happened that first November—under the fluorescent lighting of the evidence room, standing on opposite sides of the console, Reed with a gun in his hands and Connor’s whole weapon of a body prepared to fire back—it makes sense that Reed would shy away from him.

Finally, Reed nods, like both an answer and an agreement.

“Okay,” Connor says. “Okay.”

He stands, couch creaking from the release of weight, and makes his way to the door. In the threshold, he glances back at Reed to find that he’s covered his face with a hand, palm obscuring his eyes, fingertips ruffling his bangs.

As he turns to leave, Connor pulls the door closed behind him with a resounding click.

* * *

The next morning, Connor arrives at the coffee shop early and secures his and Reed’s usual table.

He waits under the rising sun, tense in his seat and eyes down on the polished wood, listening to the chatter of the town around him.

An hour passes without Reed showing up to sit with him. An hour passes in solitude, in dread, in guilt, in the sense that he should not have expected anything else.

Mind hanging in the balance between noise and numb, Connor returns home alone.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes four visits to the coffee shop without an appearance from Reed for Connor to admit defeat.

His old routine returns. Glass of thirium in his kitchen, condensation wetting his fingers, then work in the sunroom with Tera prowling around him until she’s sleepy enough to curl up on his lap. Watching the kids across the street when he’s needed.

This is a new brand of loneliness. After Detroit, Connor found himself somewhere to escape, to hide away, to figure himself out, to weather the tides of guilt alone, but he couldn’t grieve something lost when he had never gained anything in the first place. Back then, he had nothing like his relationship with Reed.

The absence of someone at his side makes him ache, makes his chassis feel heavy. The emptiness of his evenings leaves him restless—before Reed, he hadn’t even known what it was like to fill those hours with companionship.

Tera picks up on his moods and begins to shadow him more than usual, always within his reach.

When watching Riley and Bailey, he tries to be enthusiastic, tries to be fun, but feels his mood is too low and his focus too divided.

This is proven to be the case when one evening, once both Lauren and Kim are home, Kim gives him a pat on the shoulder that makes his throat cinch tight and says, “Hey, you got a minute to talk?”

Connor nods and follows Kim upstairs while Lauren stays to entertain the kids in the living room. They end up in the master bedroom, where Kim sweeps a pile of clothes off the bench at the end of her and Lauren’s bed to give him somewhere to sit. She pulls the reading chair out of the corner for herself, moving to sit across from him.

“This morning, Riley asked us why you always look so sad,” she starts, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “He wants to know how we can help you. So: what’s going on with you, Connor?”

She’s so direct, leaving Connor floundering. He tilts his head away from Kim’s line of sight, bringing a hand up to rub at his LED, certain it’s spinning.

The truth is, Connor wasn’t happy when they first met, either. The difference now is that for a few weeks, he felt like he’d found something better, found a reason to not feel despondent anymore, and now that he’s seen what it’s like to live properly, the loss of it hurts more than the initial lack of it ever did.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Where to start, I mean.”

It started in November of 2038. Maybe even before that, back in August, when he drew a gun on a PL600. Daniel. There’s no use trying to separate himself from the fact that he killed a person, and that person’s name was Daniel.

It also started a month and a half ago, when he laid eyes on Gavin Reed at the coffee shop for the first time.

Easier to start the tale there—Connor can’t voice just how much damage he did as a machine, would rather keep that locked away in his past, known only by those unfortunate enough to have witnessed it.

“I met someone. Well, I met him before, in Detroit, this was just the first time seeing each other in over a year, and the first time we were able to…” Connor purses his lips, unsure how to summarize it. “Connect, I suppose.”

Kim nods slowly. “I’m sensing a ‘but’. Doesn’t sound like anything bad, so far.”

With a sigh, Connor lets his eyes fall shut, shoulders slumping.

“I messed up.”

Here lies the crux of it: Connor doesn’t know how to do things properly, least of all how to be a person with functional relationships. He couldn’t work with Hank. Couldn’t allow himself to accept Markus’ truth. Couldn’t even obey Amanda, in the end, after the lengths he went to for her approval.

Reed needs someone better than Connor knows how to be.

Kim pushes herself upright, straight-backed in her chair. “We all make mistakes. Is there some way to fix it? Or make up for it?”

“I don’t know,” Connor admits. “It never seems to work that way. I make more mistakes than is… acceptable, I’m—”

Not human, he almost says.

“Too hard on yourself?”

Blinking in surprise, Connor turns his head to look at Kim, at the inscrutably gentle lines of her face, the sympathetic look in her eyes.

“No,” he argues, but can’t bring himself to say more than that, to admit to the things he has done. Doesn’t want to think about how long it took him to wake up, how close he came to doing something that would now be considered assassination, maybe even a war crime.

Kim huffs a laugh, but there’s little humour in it. “Alright, then, I’ll just go double easy on you to make up for it, how about that?” Without giving him a chance to respond, she switches tracks, and Connor knows it’s purposeful. “Tell me about this guy you met and what went wrong.”

Connor lowers his eyes again, scratching his fingers on the material of his slacks. This, too, has a complicated beginning, but one that doesn’t have much bearing anymore. Both he and Reed are different people than who they were two Novembers ago.

“We didn’t get along when we met before,” Connor says simply, not bothering to elaborate, “but it was a long time ago, and things are different. Despite our past, I found being around him… easy. Then, more than just easy; when we spent time together, I felt—alive.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, his voice is a hairbreadth above a whisper, like he’s telling a secret, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to say any of this.

“Ah, this is who you’ve been spending all your free time with, huh?” Kim says with a knowing smile. “Out most evenings, gone all weekend. It’s been quite the change.”

Connor nods. There’s no denying he used to be alone, that he never had a reason to leave the house except for the occasional shopping trip. Once he and Reed hit their stride, Connor finally spent as much time out of the house as in.

“Sounds like someone special,” Kim adds.

Again, Connor nods. He hasn’t thought of Reed in those words, but it’s fitting. To Connor, Reed is captivating, someone with a wealth of experience, with a grounded and focused nature to him, with a snappy attitude that feels much different now that it’s good-natured, or directed at someone else on Connor’s behalf.

Spending time with Reed has made him feel both physically and mentally present, like he actually exists in the world. An existence that isn’t a waste. There’s more purpose to him than going through the motions, he is more than just a tool, or a broken relic—he’s a person.

The longer he and Reed spend at odds, the more drained of life he feels.

A heavy exhale of breath catches his attention; Connor glances up to watch Kim lean back in her chair.

“I know that look,” she says.

For a moment, she’s quiet, the two of them just looking at each other, then she stands up, coming to sit next to him. Her arm wraps around his back, warm and weighted in a way Connor has missed so badly since he last got to walk shoulder to shoulder with Reed.

“So, what changed?” Kim prompts.

Connor allows himself to lean closer to her, just barely resting into her side.

Explaining what happened isn’t so simple—there is Reed’s privacy to think about, first and foremost, but in addition to that, Connor doesn’t know what’s going on in Reed’s head anymore. He’d been so closed off that night, an open book suddenly snapped shut.

“He’s—been through something recently, I think. We haven’t talked about it, so I don’t know what he’s carrying,” Connor says. “An aftereffect of that experience presented itself. I wasn’t sure what to do; I made it worse. He told me to leave.”

Kim hums in acknowledgement, rubbing her hand on Connor’s back in warm circles.

Finally, she says, “Yeah, definitely being too hard on yourself. Connor, it isn’t a _mistake_ to not immediately know how to handle an unfamiliar situation. No one can expect that from you.”

Connor shakes his head. “My programming—I can analyze, it helps me navigate better than even most androids, I should have—”

“Connor,” Kim interrupts, a touch of reproach in her voice, though it feels more concerned than angry. “I’m no tech expert, but I don’t think everything can be mapped out like that. Some things you get to figure out the slow, complicated way like the rest of us.”

It’s not like that, Connor wants to insist. Maybe there are blind spots in his programming, maybe his software isn’t running as smoothly as it used to, but he can’t just—make excuses for himself. He should be capable of more, he should—

“We’re all works in progress,” Kim sighs.

Blinking slow, gaze blurred, Connor considers those words. He can see the truth in them, see the evidence of it—his own evolution has been tragically slow, but he _has_ evolved, and he could not rely on his programming to facilitate the change.

Most of what he’s learned about being alive has stemmed from his interactions with Reed, not from his software.

Hesitantly, he asks, “And what exactly does the ‘slow, complicated’ way entail?”

Kim chuckles. “Oh, that’s hotly contested. We all like to do it a different way and misunderstand each other and stumble our way through to the finish line. Won’t lie, it can be messy, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. Every road has its pothole. Sometimes you can swerve around it, sometimes you notice too late, but you can still get over it.”

Connor furrows his brow, working through this analogy. It’s a bit on the odd side, but he gets what she’s saying. “I wish it were simpler.”

“Don’t we all. Here’s a suggestion, though: just ask him. Ask what he needs, what would help him, what you should do next time. Occasionally, it really can be that easy.”

When she puts it like that, it makes Connor feel like he made a mistake after all, just not the one he initially thought. He’d asked ‘do you want me to leave’, not ‘what do you want me to do’, and just maybe, if he’d given Reed more options than yes or no to one question, things could have ended differently.

“Oh,” he mutters. “Hm.”

Kim gives his back a comforting pat. “You’ll figure it out.”

Connor makes a noise of agreement but doesn’t say anything. The only thing he’s properly sure of anymore is that he misses Reed and wants to be close again. He wants to undo whatever went wrong, wants both of them to be okay. Asking—letting Reed know he’s still here for him—is something he can do.

He’s tired of being adrift. Wants to find his way back to solid ground.

“Thank you, Kim. For talking me through it.”

“’Course,” Kim answers. “It’s the neighbourly thing to do, huh?”

Connor smiles. Lauren and Kim have been good to him, and while he’s still not sure he’s any good at watching the kids, he’s glad Lauren approached him that day to start them down this path. The pair of them seem to have it all together—lovingly married, kids, a life settled into a steady rhythm, wisdom born from what it took to arrive here.

“Right,” Connor agrees.

“Good luck. And let either of us know if you need anything, okay?”

With a nod, Connor says, “Got it.”

When they stand up together to head back downstairs, there’s a renewed lightness in Connor’s form—he feels less weighed down than he has been, more hopeful than he thought possible.

At home, Connor feeds Tera and then cuddles with her on the living room couch, the television at a low volume across from them mostly for background noise.

He spends an entire hour and fourteen minutes thinking about whether or not he should text Reed, and what he should say if he does.

In the end, he goes with something simple, just to show Reed he wants to see him again. Something safe like the first few steps they took together, something Reed can easily decline, if he wants.

RK800313248317-54  
[19:39]  
Can we get coffee tomorrow morning?

In the time it takes for Reed to reply, Connor’s stress levels stay so high he can’t focus on anything but Tera’s soft fur under the bare plates of his fingers, leaving him to sink into the repetitive motion of petting along her side.

From: Gavin Reed  
[20:24]  
okay. see you tmo

Connor lets out a shaky breath. The response doesn’t reveal much about what Reed’s thinking, but he has agreed to meet, which means there’s still a chance for them to work this out. To be close again. The details will come in the morning.

RK800313248317-54  
[20:27]  
Until tomorrow, then. Have a good night.

There’s no answer, but Connor’s spirits remain high for the rest of the evening.

When it gets late, he gathers Tera into his arms and carries her to his bedroom, setting her down so he can get changed and ready for stasis.

Slipping under the surface is easier than it has been in days.

* * *

The moment Connor wakes up the next morning, nervous but excited energy thrums through his system. He’s quick to get ready and leave the house, the walk to the coffee shop as familiar as always.

Reed isn’t there yet when he arrives, but he’s early enough that it doesn’t concern him. He grabs their usual table in the corner of the patio, clutching a small bottle of thirium between his hands as he waits.

It doesn’t take long. Many of the town’s early risers come and go, Connor watching them surreptitiously as they pass, and eventually, when he lifts his gaze from the table in hopes of seeing the one person he wants to see more than anyone else, it’s Reed making his way towards him.

A smile breaks out on Connor’s face as Reed gives him a little wave—a guarded, tentative gesture—before he goes inside to order his coffee. Soon, he joins Connor on the patio like he said he would.

“Hey,” Connor greets as Reed sits down. “It’s good to see you.”

Reed shifts in his chair, eyes downcast. Steam rises off the surface of his coffee, too scalding to drink yet, though he looks like he wishes for the distraction.

He’s uncomfortable, just as nervous as Connor is, but Connor doesn’t know why, exactly. Doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Reed,” he starts, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out where to start.

Reed looks up at him, tilting his head in consideration, even though Connor still hasn’t said anything. The moment hangs for a couple beats until Reed takes his phone out and sends a text.

From: Gavin Reed  
[7:03]  
thought you were calling me gavin now

At Reed’s place, when Connor woke him from his nightmare, he’d done so by calling his name—both first and last. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, nor one Connor has thought about much, it just felt right at the time.

“I did, a couple times,” Connor says tentatively. “Do you want me to continue?”

Wetting his lips, Reed looks away from him again, eyes seeming to follow the wisps of steam curling in the air in front of him. He gives Connor the shrug that Connor knows to interpret as ‘yes, but I don’t want to admit it’.

“Gavin, then,” Connor says softly, mouth curving into a smile.

Silence settles around them, not altogether comfortable, but not tense either, just a pause for a chance to breathe, to adjust to being in each other’s presence again, navigating the way forward.

In time, Gavin’s drink cools enough that he takes a mouthful, and that alone breaks the ice. He leans back in his chair, shoulders dropping, the rigid lines of his body easing.

Connor still doesn’t know how to broach the topic of what happened the last time they saw each other, so he starts with broad honesty, with the truth of how he feels, and he hopes Gavin will understand. Hopes it doesn’t cause Gavin to stand up and walk away, maybe forever.

“You’ve become very important to me, Gavin.”

Instantly, Gavin’s eyes snap over to him, widened with surprise. He makes no move to send Connor a message, makes no move at all, but the intensity and attentiveness of his gaze encourages Connor to go on.

Without pausing to overthink each word, Connor forces himself into the open. “I never thought I could be so happy or connect with another person like we did. Getting to know you in earnest has changed me, improved me, and this past week without you, it—” He shakes his head, unable to explain just how it felt to lose someone who had become a steady part of his life. “If possible, I’d like to continue as we were.”

Gavin’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows, his eyes still fixed on Connor’s. No response comes from him, though this silence seems born of shock rather than displeasure.

Remembering the advice given to him, Connor adds, “Please tell me if there’s anything…” He hesitates, not wanting to put Gavin on the spot by directly addressing what happened at the apartment. “Just let me know if I can—”

Before he can stumble his way through a full sentence, Gavin reaches out, resting his hand on Connor’s forearm.

Connor stills, gaze falling to the point of contact right below where his shirt sleeve is bunched up at his elbow, leaving the rest of his arm bare. The touch is light and warm, Gavin’s rough palm heated from handling his mug of coffee. The warmth radiates across Connor’s plating, sinking deep into his thirium lines.

When he finally drags his eyes back up, he can tell from the intent look Gavin has trained on him that he was waiting, unable to communicate until Connor met his eye.

Gavin gives a firm nod—a simple gesture, but one containing multitudes. An agreement, a reciprocation, an understanding. Tension rolls out of him, as if Connor has managed to assuage whatever doubts he was harbouring, calmed whatever storm he was facing.

Seeing that Connor has caught the intended message, Gavin pulls away slowly, taking up his coffee for a drink. The silence isn’t so charged this time—it feels more like it used to, when they could simply sit together and enjoy their drinks without the pressure to speak.

The conversation comes to them naturally, as it always does, when Gavin glances at him, noticing something. He reaches out again, this time to pluck a cat hair off Connor’s sleeve where Tera nuzzled against him while he was brushing her earlier.

Gavin gives Connor a questioning look as he rubs his fingers together, dislodging the hair and letting it flutter away from them.

“My cat, Tera,” Connor answers. “She was in the bushes at the end of my backyard during my first winter here. Couldn’t leave her out in the cold. I meant to just take her to the shelter, but…”

But he got attached near instantaneously. She was his first companion, his only companion, until he started getting out more, opening up. She gave him comfort at a time when he felt rightfully alone.

Holding his hand out over the table, Connor displays an image on his palm. Tera curled up in the corner of the couch, nestled in between the cushion and the pillow. Next, he shows a picture of her lying on his lap, butting her head into his hand as he pets her.

Gavin grins, leaning forward to get a closer look, his expression soft.

“She’s very cuddly,” Connor tells him. Her unconditional and unabashed affection might just be what made Connor fall in love so quickly, having never experienced any living being so willing to be in his space.

Making a thoughtful noise, Gavin leans back and takes out his phone.

[7:24]  
can i meet her?

Connor’s processor fires off with something akin to preconstructions, imagining the different paths that could branch from here if he says yes.

Gavin coming home with him, like Connor went home with him after their night playing pool. Gavin seeing where he lives, _how_ he lives, getting to meet the cat Connor has come to cherish.

Potential for things to go wrong, just like before. Getting too personal, scaring Gavin off, saying the wrong thing.

If something does go wrong, though, it’s less likely to completely ruin things for them now, Connor hopes. They’ll make it through, get past the hurdle.

The two of them can grow closer, sharing more of their lives with each other. Connor realizes in this moment just how badly he wants that, wants Gavin to be a permanent part of his life and know things about him that no one else does.

“Yes. My neighbours don’t need me to watch the kids today, you can come with me after,” he says, gesturing to Gavin’s coffee.

Gavin flashes him a thumbs up before taking the mug in hand and tipping it back, drinking the last of it in a couple mouthfuls. Then he taps his fingers on the table, a gesture he tends to make when he’s impatient or anticipatory.

“Alright, let’s go then,” Connor says with a small laugh, pushing his chair out.

Ahead of him, Gavin makes for the patio fence instead of the door inside, vaulting over it like Connor did that first day he joined Gavin here.

Connor follows suit, smiling wide. He has missed hanging out with Gavin, missed the antics and the banter, both the quips Gavin texts him and the things he does to convey a challenge without words.

As they walk away from the coffee shop together, a lost piece slots back into place within Connor, returning with it that feeling of presence, of contentment. The nervous thought of how Gavin will react to Connor’s spartan living space is fleeting, chased away by the assurance that Gavin won’t care, that he won’t judge.

When they reach their destination, Gavin bobs on the balls of his feet while he waits for Connor to unlock the door, a mix of restlessness and excitement in his form.

The entranceway is lit with morning sunlight, the spot where Connor sits to do his remote work occupied by Tera, as if she somehow knew Connor would be bringing someone over to meet her.

Gavin steps towards her and kneels down in front of the chair, making Tera chirp as she lifts her head. Cautiously, Gavin offers his hand to her, which she readily sniffs, unafraid.

Connor watches them from the doorway, recognizing that he doesn’t need to give Gavin any instructions, doesn’t have to be nearby to keep Tera calm when faced with a stranger. It’s clear that Gavin has some experience of his own with cats, based on how calm and measured his gestures are, allowing Tera to trust him enough to pet along her back.

“You had a cat?”

Without looking away from Tera, Gavin lifts up four fingers.

Four cats—it’s a surprise to find just how much of a cat person Gavin is. Connor never saw any indication of pets while at Gavin’s apartment, which must mean they’re all in the past. Maybe he even had to leave them behind when he moved.

“But not anymore?” he prompts.

This time, Gavin does look up, giving Connor a somber but reassuring smile. He can’t explain without getting out his phone, but Connor takes this to mean any current cats are staying with someone Gavin trusts until he returns to Detroit or decides to make the move permanent.

Nodding, Connor says, “Want to go inside? She’ll follow, she likes being close.”

Especially lately. Connor wonders if she’ll be able to tell Gavin is the person he’s been missing, if she’ll pick up on his improved mood from here on out.

Gavin gives Tera a final scratch under the chin before standing up and following Connor into the house proper, the hall opening into the living room on one side and the staircase on the other.

Sure enough, Connor hears Tera stirring behind them, the soft drop of her paws landing on the wood floor when she jumps down from the chair.

“I’d offer to get you something, but I only have refreshments for androids and cats.”

Gavin huffs a laugh, waving a hand to say it’s okay, and takes a seat on the living room couch. Turning to look over his shoulder, he watches Tera enter after them, already lowering his hand and making a gesture with his fingers to get her attention.

A new feeling sparks in Connor’s system, a reaction to seeing Gavin interact with his cat, inviting her to jump up onto the couch with him. It’s—adorable, he thinks. This isn’t an observation he’s made before; it isn’t the kind of observation he’s programmed to make at all. This is something _human_.

Sinking into the other end of the couch, Connor angles himself inward, just watching as Gavin silently gets acquainted with Tera.

He must miss his own cats. Now that Connor has one, he can’t imagine moving away and having to leave her behind.

“I think she likes you,” Connor murmurs.

Gavin gives no response, but he looks relaxed, happy—perhaps even more so than the days leading up to the night at his apartment. Maybe Connor isn’t the only one who felt the ache of their separation so acutely.

For awhile, they sit in comfortable silence other than Tera’s purring, until she grows sleepy and decides to curl into a ball up against Gavin’s leg.

“You’re covered in cat hair now too,” Connor comments with a grin.

Gavin grins back, continuing to smooth his fingers over Tera’s fur before drawing away finally, moving to take his phone out of his pocket.

Connor watches, curiously, as Gavin taps his thumb against the side of it, not pressing anything on the screen, just making that restless gesture.

After a minute of this, Connor asks, “Is everything alright?”

The tapping stops, Gavin’s thumb resting on the edge of the phone screen. His eyes are cast forward, lost in the middle distance—the motionlessness is unsettling, making Connor tense with nervous anticipation, remembering the way Gavin shut down after waking from his nightmare.

Then Gavin’s eyes flicker down to his phone and he taps at it in earnest, gaze coming into focus, mind made up.

No text messages come. Instead, Gavin stops at something before holding the phone out, across the length of the couch between them.

Connor frowns. “You want me to—” he starts, but cuts himself off. The intent is clear, even if it’s unusual for Gavin to hand off the device that allows him to communicate in words.

Tentatively, Connor takes the phone from him, avoiding the brushing of their fingers, and cradles it within both hands. He will handle it with care, knowing how important it is to Gavin.

The screen starts to darken from inactivity, spurring Connor to give it a gentle tap as he looks down, curious to see what Gavin is showing him.

There’s a news article on the display, the bold headline reading, ‘Detroit Drug Cartel Busted’.

Connor’s first assumption is that this was an accomplishment of Gavin’s, a major case he worked between the revolution and now, but he’s not sure why Gavin would make a point of showing him, why he’d be so hesitant over something that went _well_.

Movement at the other end of the couch makes him look up and catch Gavin slumping lower until he can drop his head against the back cushions. He rests his hand on Tera’s curled back, just holding it there in her warm fur as he closes his eyes.

Connor reads on.

The article is mostly what he would expect: a crime syndicate big enough to make it into the news, much like the Lieutenant’s Red Ice Task Force back in the day. Something positive to make the public feel safer.

What Connor doesn’t expect is the section about a detective who went undercover to feed information back to the police department. A detective whose cover got blown.

The DPD didn’t know until Gavin missed his next check-in—much later.

And took longer still to use what information they got initially to find him at the base of operations, in critical condition after weeks of torture.

They tried to make him reveal what he exposed to the police, but he didn’t talk. Hasn’t talked since.

Connor’s thirium pump stutters, missing a beat, then starts back up too quickly to make up for the delay, reverberating in his chest.

Scrolling back up, he searches for the date of publication, finding that it was a few months back—not so recent, but not old news, either.

He thinks of when he first saw Gavin at the coffee shop. Remembers the way he tensed, fear flashing across his features. Then the parking lot, the distance Gavin kept.

Then the shrinking of that distance the more time they spent together, as Connor proved he meant no harm.

Both of them were looking for an escape, to get away from a city that held too many heavy memories. Both of them ended up here, in a rural town where time moves slow and everything is simpler—both of them found something in each other.

Connor doesn’t know what to say. Words of comfort don’t feel like enough, feel like platitudes, no matter how much he means them. He can’t lessen what Gavin has been through by giving condolences, can’t make him feel better by reaffirming that it was a horrible thing to experience.

He settles on a whispered, “Thank you for telling me.”

There’s a beat of silence, making Connor think Gavin might have fallen asleep, but then Gavin lets out a quiet noise of acknowledgement without opening his eyes.

Connor closes the article. Reaching out, he sets the phone down close enough for Gavin to pick it up if he wants to say something more.

He understands what form Gavin’s nightmares must take. A cop discovered in the lion’s den, tortured just enough that he would live to tell the tale.

Or not, in Gavin’s case. Not verbally.

“I have nightmares too,” Connor says.

Gavin doesn’t open his eyes, but his breathing and heart rate haven’t slowed—Connor knows he’s listening.

“Not quite like yours. The things I have nightmares about—they’re my own fault, really. For obeying instead of thinking for myself. I died multiple times, I ended so many lives in return, both human and android. My processor works through all the pathways some nights, twists them together to make them even worse.

“Tera helps, though. I always calm down easier when she’s there,” he says, gaze dropping to where Gavin’s hand is pressed to Tera’s fur. “Even if it’s different… I understand. You’re welcome here, with us, if it helps.”

Gavin’s throat works around a thick swallow. Turning his head without lifting it, still pillowed on the back of the couch, his eyes open with the slow flutter of his eyelashes.

They regard each other in silence for a moment before Gavin reaches out for his phone. He types with one hand, slow, unharried.

[8:39]  
thought i freaked you out.

“No,” Connor says immediately, stunned but insistent. All this time he thought he’d made Gavin uncomfortable, that he simply wasn’t what Gavin needed at the time, while it seems Gavin felt similarly at fault. “No, definitely not. I only—I didn’t want to crowd you. Didn’t know what you needed.”

Gavin takes time to think on this, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Connor waits patiently for his next message.

[8:41]  
i dont want to hurt you. like i did when we first met. never again

Chest clenching, Connor pulls himself closer to Gavin, gently lifting a hand to his shoulder, making light contact with only the tips of his fingers. “You didn’t, and you won’t. I know you won’t, nightmares or not.”

Exhaling a shuddered breath, Gavin grips his phone tight, but sends no reply, just lets Connor’s words resonate between them. No argument, but not an easy acceptance either. Connor waits—would wait as long as necessary.

Finally, Gavin’s fingers loosen. He sets his phone down on his thigh, continuing to stare at it for yet another minute before lifting his eyes to lock on Connor’s, giving a little nod. He drums his fingers on his leg, then picks up his phone again without further thought.

[8:48]  
you dont make me feel crowded

Relief courses through Connor to know he hasn’t overstepped, hasn’t upset Gavin with his desire for proximity. “I’m glad,” he says, letting his fingers brush down Gavin’s bicep, only pulling away when his skin begins to waver over his knuckles.

If Gavin would welcome it, Connor would be tempted to scoop Tera up and move into the space she occupied, replacing her between their laps as he settles against Gavin’s side, but—too much, too fast. His body’s responsiveness causes him a knot of shame, holding him back.

They’ve only just reunited; they’ve worked through a lot. Best to not get ahead of themselves. “Want to stay for awhile? We can pick a movie to watch,” he suggests, offering the chance for effortless time spent together.

With a smile brightening his face, Gavin nods.

Connor smiles back before glancing at his television, connecting wirelessly to turn it on and bring up the library he subscribed to some months ago, thinking it would help him understand people, life, everything he felt disconnected from.

Watching them alone never felt enlightening. With Gavin here, he thinks he might be able to enjoy it properly.

“Let me know,” Connor says simply, and Gavin must know exactly what he means, because he points when he sees something he likes as Connor scrolls through the options.

Once again, the dynamic between them becomes easy.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Tera stretches, rolling over on the cushion and letting Gavin rub her belly. When she’s had her fill, she moves to sit on Connor’s lap instead, prompting Gavin to wordlessly move closer to them both, just close enough that when he relaxes his legs, their knees align.

Connor’s core blooms with the returning warmth, like spring after a long winter.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with the dbh fandom at the [detroit: new era discord server](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm)! :D


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